The Stony Path

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘All right, me lass.’ It was a slow, tortured whisper from labouring lungs, but the old man’s face was more at peace than when Polly had come into the room, and as far as she was concerned it made what was to follow bearable.

  They came out of the small parish church to a hail of rice, the sound of the bell-ringers working themselves into a frenzy, and shouted congratulations from what appeared to Polly’s dazed mind to be hundreds of people.

  The October day was a sunny one and unseasonably mild, but when Frederick took Polly’s hand to help her up into the flower-bedecked horse and carriage, he found it to be icy.

  She was married.

  Polly glanced at the big, jolly figure seated next to her as they waved at everyone before the uniformed driver clicked to the horse. This was her husband. She was now Mrs Frederick Weatherburn, and Polly Farrow had gone forever. She continued to tell herself the same thing all the way back to Stone Farm as she endeavoured to take it in.

  Once back at the farm Betsy – after offering her congratulations – took another look at her new mistress and said firmly, ‘It’s frozen you are. Come away in the house while the rest of ’em arrive an’ have a sup, won’t you. Everythin’s ready in the barn, an’ once everyone’s seated you an’ the master can go in an’ we’ll start servin’.’

  ‘Aye, that’s a good idea. You go and warm up, lass, and I’ll just have a word with Croft about the beer barrel,’ said Frederick heartily.

  Polly looked at him. He had kissed her – once – in the church after the pronouncement that they were man and wife, and it had been neither pleasant nor unpleasant, merely a pressing of his lips against her closed ones. During the drive home he had rubbed her cold hands between his a few times and talked about who had been present at the ceremony and other such niceties, but he had made no attempt to kiss her again, for which she had been grateful. But later tonight . . .

  She shivered convulsively, and Betsy said again, ‘Come on, Miss Polly—’ before stopping abruptly and giving a little giggle. ‘Oh, I can’t call you that no more, can I, miss!’

  ‘Mrs Weatherburn is your mistress, Betsy, and must be addressed as such.’ Frederick’s voice was faintly reproving, although he was smiling.

  Betsy’s face lost its smile and she bobbed her head quickly. Always on his high horse about something, he was. ‘I’ll bring you a hot drink in the sitting room, ma’am,’ she said flatly now.

  Ma’am? Oh no, there was no way she could stand that, but over the last weeks Frederick had made it very plain he expected her to be aware of her position in his household. Nevertheless, ‘ma’am’ would drive her mad! Polly smiled into the plump face of the housekeeper as she said, ‘I think I would like to be called missus, Betsy, as that’s what I am now. Mistress or ma’am doesn’t sit right.’

  She knew Frederick disapproved; ‘missus’ was a title the farmers’ wives on the smaller farms adopted, and he considered himself a cut above them, but she was determined on this. ‘Missus’ was warm, nice, besides which, Betsy and Emily and all Frederick’s employees had shown her nothing but respect and kindness.

  Betsy darted a quick glance at her employer. She had never known any other life but the one at Stone Farm, from when her mam had first found her a place as kitchen maid to the second Mrs Weatherburn. She’d been a little lass of eleven then, and within the year her mam and da had been taken with the fever and her two younger brothers had gone to live with relatives in North Shields and she had never heard from them again. She had watched the master grow up, and by the time the second Mrs Weatherburn and the master’s father had died, she had been experienced enough to take on the role of housekeeper at the farm. She had done it willingly, but she had always known – deep inside – that she didn’t like the master. He wasn’t like his father had been, he was difficult to get on with and uppity. Aye, that was the word, uppity. But it didn’t look as if the little mistress was going to follow suit.

  Frederick swallowed heavily, and then said, in a hearty, jovial voice that covered his irritation, ‘As you like, m‘dear, as you like,’ before turning away and striding off in the direction of the massive barn set next to two smaller ones.

  The big barn had been transformed by the farm hands in the last few weeks. All the farm equipment and stores had been moved into the smaller ones until they were packed from floor to ceiling, and then the barn had been swept clean and the inside painted and rush matting placed on the floor. Four long trestle tables, set out in the form of cricket stumps, and numerous wooden benches had been brought in for the wedding feast, and the tables were now covered in clean, crisp white sheets and groaning with food and jugs of home-made wine. At the far end of the barn stood the huge beer barrel and a table of tankards waiting to be filled by Croft. Frederick had hired a party of fiddlers for the dancing later that evening – no expense spared, as he had said more than once in the last weeks until Polly, and everyone else if the truth be known, had become sick of the phrase.

  A grand affair, that was what he wanted people to remember when they thought of this day – a grand affair, Frederick told himself as he let his eyes wander over the interior of the barn. Polly was a fine-looking little wench, and young, young enough for him to be envied by more than a few of his peers, but more importantly he now had old Walter’s land. Once he finalised a deal with Nicholson, he’d be sitting pretty. Oh, aye, sitting pretty, right enough. But he deserved it, he’d been patient for years. He sucked the air through his teeth in satisfaction, his chest puffing out and his eyes narrowing.

  Voices and laughter told him the first of the guests who had followed from the church had arrived, and he glanced round his surroundings once more – his mind calculating the cost of what he saw – before he swayed once or twice on the heels of his fine leather boots and then turned to greet them.

  Everyone had been dancing for three hours or more since the tables had been carried out; just one, holding the remnants of the food, remaining at the side of the barn. The fiddlers were in fine form and so were most of the guests, courtesy of the home-made wine and beer, not to mention the bottles of whisky Frederick had had brought out once the meal was over.

  Polly had had the first dance with her new husband, as tradition demanded, but since then she had barely seen Frederick as he had chatted to first one, then another, then another of his more influential and prosperous guests. She had lost count of how many times she had been whirled about the dance floor and by whom, but now, as she sat on one of the forms next to the table with the last of the food, two things stood out from the dizzy confusion of the day. The first was that her mother and Arnold had seemed to have a lot to say to each other as they’d sat in a comer of the barn, Arnold with his injured leg resting on an upturned bucket; and the second was the expression etched on Luke’s face when he had danced with her earlier. She couldn’t get his face out of her mind. It had made her want to tell him everything, to gabble it all out and – ridiculously – ask him for absolution – and to combat the feeling she had been very stiff and proper, which wasn’t at all as she’d felt inside.

  ‘It’s a grand do, Miss Pol— I mean, missus.’ Betsy had sidled to her side in a break from the dancing as the fiddlers downed yet another tankard of ale. Frederick had conceded that his workers and their families, along with Betsy and Emily, could join the jollifications once the food had been cleared away, mainly because Polly had insisted on it. She had been amazed a few days before when she had discovered, through something Betsy had inadvertently let slip, that an invitation hadn’t been proffered to the farm hands and indoor staff.

  ‘Aye, yes, it is.’ Polly smiled at the plump little woman.

  ‘The master’ll be pleased.’

  ‘Yes, he will.’

  Betsy was bending slightly towards her, her face level with Polly’s and her eyes bright, and as they exchanged a look in perfect understanding, Polly was suddenly aware she could have a friend in this bustling little housekeeper if she wanted it. And she did. She did want a
friend.

  ‘Thank you for all you’ve done to make the day so successful,’ Polly said quietly. ‘You haven’t had a minute to yourself lately.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all in a day’s work.’ Betsy smiled warmly at her as she rose from the bench. ‘I’ll just be away to look in on your grandda an’ granny. It’s bin an hour or two since you went last, hasn’t it?’

  Polly nodded. ‘But I’ll go, Betsy, I’d like to.’ She had asked Ruth to pop over to the farmhouse twice in the last hour, but her sister was too busy flirting with Cecil Longhurst – or perhaps teasing him would be a better description, Polly thought wryly. The poor lad didn’t know if he was on foot or horseback with the little minx. But she did want to escape the noise and merriment for a few minutes; her head was pounding fit to burst and the comments flying around were becoming increasingly ribald – and all concerning the wedding night.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Betsy as the fiddlers began another spirited polka. ‘There’s one or two here who’ve imbibed a bit too freely an’ they’re not too particular where they put their hands. Mr Shelton, him that runs the public house in East Herrington, he’ll get it when his lady wife gets him home. She’s sittin’ there with a face like a smacked backside.’

  Polly glanced across at the woman in question and saw Betsy’s description was more than a little accurate. It was as she was turning away that her gaze became arrested by a pair of eyes across the room. In the split second before Arnold’s lids came down and hid the malevolent blackness, Polly felt the full force of his hatred, the shock of it causing her stomach to turn over. She stared at him, unable to believe she had seen what she had, but his gaze was on the dancers now and he didn’t meet her eyes as she rose slowly to her feet before following Betsy out of the barn.

  Arnold knew the second Polly left. He had been aware of every movement, every glance, every slight turn of the head the white-bedecked figure had made all day.

  The conniving little strumpet; wearing white and looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth when she’d been at it for years with everyone but him. The festering nature of Arnold’s thoughts, made all the more virulent by the long hours of sitting idle since the accident at the pit and his inability to visit a certain house in Monkwearmouth for physical relief, made him want to writhe. And her mam had said nothing to allay his suspicions when he’d talked to her; it was clear Hilda suspected her daughter was no better than she should be.

  The black gaze swept the room again before alighting own Frederick. Look at him, self-satisfied, posturing little nowt. Arnold ground his teeth together as his nostrils flared. Frederick hadn’t said a word to him all day, or Luke for that matter, but he’d been buzzing round all his fancy friends like a bluebottle round dung. Well, perhaps it was time to take that smile off his fat face. Aye, aye, he’d give Frederick Weatherburn something to chew on all right.

  Arnold rose to his feet, and as he began to hobble in Frederick’s direction, Frederick noticed him out of the comer of his eye and silently groaned. He’d been putting this off all day, talking to Eva’s stepsons; he still didn’t see why Polly had been so adamant they had to have an invitation. When all was said and done they were no relation at all to the Farrows, being the sons of Nathaniel’s first wife. And miners! Ignorant, quarrelsome agitators, that was what most miners were, but then they did know the truth about Polly’s aunt and father, so maybe it was prudent to keep them sweet.

  ‘Arnold, lad.’ As the other man reached his side, Frederick’s voice was genial. ‘How’s the leg now?’

  Lad? The patronising swine. ‘So-so, Frederick. So-so.’

  ‘It’ll be a long job, I understand? Still, you can’t rush these things, not if you don’t want trouble.’ Even as he was speaking, Frederick’s eyes were roaming the crowd to make sure any leading lights in the assembly had their glasses filled.

  And then Arnold brought the older man’s eyes very definitely on to him when he said, his voice low but clear, ‘You’ve done a decent thing in taking her on, man. There’s not many that would have, not when they’re well set up like you are.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Polly.’ Arnold’s voice expressed a combination of commendation and sympathy. ‘Still, I’m sure you can turn her round, and most lasses settle down when they’re wed, so I’m told.’

  ‘Turn her round?’ Frederick glanced over his shoulder and then took Arnold’s arm, manhandling him over to a quiet corner away from the dancers as he said again, ‘What are you on about, turn her round?’

  Arnold’s eyes opened wide for a second and then he forced an uneasy laugh as he said, ‘I thought you knew. Are you telling me you didn’t know?’

  ‘Know what?’ Frederick hissed.

  ‘About Polly.’ ‘Arnold.’

  ‘Look, I’m sure half of it isn’t true, and most girls can be free with their favours when they’re young and pretty like she is. It doesn’t mean anything, and when all’s said and done you’re the one she’s marrying, aren’t you?’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me she’s been—’ Frederick stopped abruptly. ‘That she has had liaisons?’ he finished tightly, his face turkey-red now.

  ‘Look, man, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ Arnold’s tone had changed subtly and now held commiseration at its root. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word you’re saying.’

  He believed it all right, it was there in the bulging veins in his forehead and the hunted look in his eyes. ‘Aye, I’ve got it all wrong,’ Arnold said soothingly, reflecting that nothing had given him so much pleasure for years. ‘Forget I said anything, man, and enjoy your wedding day.’

  Frederick stared hard into Arnold’s face before turning and once more looking about him, and then he said, his voice rapid and his tone low, ‘Who? Who’s she supposed to have gone with?’

  You for a start. Arnold kept his eyes steady and his face expressing nothing but faint embarrassment. And clearly she fooled you that you were the first. But they could do that, some women. How many times had the whores in Monkwearmouth acted a part for him when he’d asked for it, making themselves tight and pretending they were as pure as the driven snow? But at least they were doing it knowing what they were, whereas that one . . . His eyes flickered. Thought she was Lady Bountiful now, did Polly. Michael had been the first, he’d swear that on oath. All those evenings when the little half-nowt was supposed to be studying his blasted birds! Aye, she’d had a bit of fun with Michael all right, but all the time she’d got her sights set on Frederick and an easy life. He dared bet that farce of an engagement announcement had been to bring Frederick up to scratch, and as things had worked out it’d all fallen neatly into her lap. Had she known about Eva and her da? He wouldn’t put anything past her.

  Arnold worked his lips in and out for a moment or two, his head hung in apparent disconcertedness. ‘Like I said, I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ he mumbled at last. ‘It’s none of my business. Get yourself another drink and have a good time. This is your day, man.’

  In the next couple of hours before the guests began to depart in their various conveyances, from carriages and traps to horse and carts – some, like Arnold and Luke, having arranged for horse-drawn cabs from the town to call at a predetermined time – Frederick had more than one drink. In fact the general consensus of opinion among the male guests as most of them staggered to their appropriate mode of transport seemed to be that the new bride was going to have a pretty disappointing wedding night.

  Luke and Arnold were among the first to leave – Luke was paying Elsie Appleby by the hour to sit with Eva. It was left to Polly to bid them farewell, Frederick having all but passed out as he sat in a morose drunken stupor with half a bottle of whisky in front of him. Polly couldn’t understand what had happened since she had returned from seeing her grandparents. Frederick had been merry when she had left and definitely well-oiled, but on returning to the barn she had found him pouring tot after tot of whisky down his throat, and had been
able to get no more than a grunt out of him. She had never seen him intoxicated before, and the change from the affable, somewhat pretentious figure he liked to cut was frightening.

  ‘I’d get Croft to get him up to bed.’ Arnold nodded at the slumped figure as he spoke, and his voice was full of scornful laughter. ‘Enjoyed his wedding a sight too much by the look of it.’

  He hadn’t met Polly’s eyes since the incident in the barn earlier, and he still didn’t look fully at her until the tone of her voice saying, ‘I think he is entitled to,’ brought the black orbs up to meet violet-blue.

  ‘Oh, aye?’ He kept the smile on his face with some effort as he surveyed her coolly uplifted chin and haughty gaze. By, she had it coming, this one. ‘Let’s hope a touch of brewer’s droop don’t make you regret saying that.’

  ‘That’s enough of that talk.’ Luke’s voice was thin and cold.

  ‘It’s a wedding, man!’

  ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘For crying out loud.’ Arnold almost lost sight of the part he was playing, and then he forced his voice back into jocular mode as he made a helpless gesture with his shoulders and said to Polly, ‘If you can’t have a bit of funnin’ at a wedding then when can you?’ continuing before she could make any retort, ‘Good night, then, lass, and pass on me best wishes to your husband when he’s able to receive them. He looks like he’ll need ’em before the night’s finished.’